


Danny, Don't You Know?

by skyhillian



Category: Game Grumps
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Gen, OCD, ch 4 has mild child abuse, dan's just not in a good place mentally so if youre not into that go away, imposter syndrome, nothing too bad but please approach with caution, self deprecation, stress-induced depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-24 17:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14958926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyhillian/pseuds/skyhillian
Summary: It's been rough for the past few months, and Dan feels like it's all crashing down around him. Sometimes, you just need to realize that you're rad as fuck on the inside.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure at what speed this will be finished, but I wanted to at least get it started before the video/single for DDYK comes out. I've had this idea bouncing around in my head since I started Fireflies, and I was blown away when I found out Dan had written Danny Dont You Know.
> 
> Obviously, liberties are taken with characters and settings and details. This is fiction.

It’s very rare that Dan gets legitimately angry, but he’s getting really fucking close to his threshold of dickitry. He’s been trying to write this simple stanza for two hours, and absolutely nothing is happening inside of his brain. It’s like someone set his brain channel to static. Everything he comes up with is stupid, and none of it flows right when he tries to put it to the music he has.

The last month has been hell on his creativity--he’d been doing great, cranking out music for Brian to work with and lyrics that they could both agree upon. He even started coming up with plans for future albums. It’s normal that he gets stressed and a little gnarly when album releases approach, since there’s so much that goes into finalizing that, but this time around, he’s extra unhappy.

His girlfriend, Libby, broke up with him last week out of the fucking blue, and it’s made his already sour mood tank completely. Things had been going absolutely great--they’d been together for almost eight months and Dan was positive that everything was smooth sailing. Libby had other ideas, apparently. So, on top of album stress, now he’s stressed out emotionally, too.

Danny shakes his head, as if his brain is an Etch-A-Sketch and he can just wipe away the thoughts of Libby and the album release, and he goes back to trying to complete the fucking stanza he’s working at for _Orgy for One_.

It takes five more minutes before he truly loses it, and his pencil snaps in his hand. With a frustrated shout, he chucks the broken pieces across the room, and they skitter across the floor near one of the desks. Thankfully the Grump space is almost empty, and it’s just Dan, Arin, and Leighton. Leighton is on the entire other side of the building working on Dream Daddy, so he’s not worried about her hearing him. Arin, on the other hand, is at his desk in his office with the door wide open.

Dan roughly drops his forehead to the table, and a dull pain shoots across it. He deserves it, honestly. He’s not getting any-fucking-where and he hasn’t been for weeks. The table has recently been cleaned--Leddy was here earlier. The wood surface smells like lysol, and it’s not helping Dan’s now burgeoning headache.

He’s still face down on the table when he hears Arin’s soft footsteps. He doesn’t move. Maybe if he stays still, Arin won’t see him.

Arin has been worried about Dan for a few weeks now, and rightfully so. The normally jovial and giggly man has been moody and solemn and quiet. He catches sight of the broken pencil across the room, and he sighs. He’s been there multiple times--sometimes the brain just doesn’t connect to your hands so you can put what you want onto paper and it’s one of the most goddamn frustrating things on the fucking planet.

He rests his hand on Dan’s back and he frowns. The older man’s already bony spine is more prominent than usual. Dan’s a pretty shitty eater in general most of the time, and Arin does his best to make sure the older man eats, but he’s apparently been slacking off since Dan has lost at least three pounds over the past month. That wouldn’t be considered an awful lot, but since Dan is already a twig, it’s worrying.

“Why don’t you take a break, man?” Arin suggests in a gentle tone of voice.

Dan looks up at Arin with a sour look. “Yeah, fine. I’ll take a break from my incredible progress to laze around a bit.” Arin tries his best to not look hurt, but Dan catches the flash of pain in Arin’s eyes, and he sighs. He scrubs at his face with his hands. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean it.” He rests his head on the table again and he takes a shuddering breath.

“C’mon,” Arin murmurs, tugging gently at Dan’s shoulder. “Let’s go to my office.”

Dan follows Arin wordlessly, and he sits down in Arin’s little alcove where his sofa is with his head down. He’s ashamed at his behavior. It’s not Arin’s fault he’s shit at what he does.

The sofa dips beside him as Arin sits down and rests his arm across Dan’s back. His skin is warm, even through Dan’s t-shirt, and it helps him relax just a pinch. “Do you wanna talk about it?” Arin asks.

Dan shakes his head, still refusing to look up at Arin. “No,” he whispers, and Arin can hear that he’s on the verge of tears. “It’s pointless to talk about because it won’t fix anything.”

The worry he’s felt for the past few weeks doubles in intensity, and Arin scoots in closer to his friend. It’s very, very rare that Dan gets low enough that he hits this point. Arin’s only seen it twice--when Dan burned himself out for _Player Select_ , and when Brian moved to London.

“When was the last time you had a therapy appointment?” Arin rubs Dan’s back in gentle circles. “It might help you out a bit.”

Danny shrugs. “I was still with Libby,” he admits. He sniffles some more, and he leans against Arin. “I’m tired,” he whispers. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

Arin’s hand stills in its movements, and he takes a deep breath, hoping that it will keep his voice from shaking. “Don’t wanna do what anymore?” he asks timidly. He does and doesn’t want to know the answer to his question.

Again, Danny shrugs. “Think. Feel. I just wanna sleep for a while.”

There’s a cold pit in Arin’s stomach, and he immediately identifies it as a mixture of fear and sadness. “We’re gonna get you in to see the therapist, alright? I’ll even take you if you want me to.”

Dan gives Arin acknowledgement in only the form of a minute nod. He knows he has a problem, but he’s also been fruitlessly hoping that it would just pass on its own and he’d be okay in a couple weeks or whatever. If he doesn’t acknowledge it, it’s not real, right?

~~~

After Dan takes a little nap in Arin’s office, he heads out of the building. He’s still sitting in his car in the parking lot when he pulls out his phone and finds his therapist in his contacts. She’s happy to hear from him, and she schedules him an appointment. Unfortunately, he can’t get in until next week. He’ll be okay until Tuesday... He just has to take it easy.

Driving home is uneventful--Dan is practically on autopilot, zoned out as he drives through his neighborhood. He’s aware enough that he’s driving safely, but when he pulls into his garage, it takes him a few moments to realize that he’s at home and he can get out of the car now.

Danny lets himself into the house, which is crushingly silent. The only sounds that fill the air are the hum of the fridge and the whirring drone of the air conditioner running. When he puts his keys on the counter he flinches because it hurts his ears. Everything is too quiet, but anything to fill the silece will be too loud for him to handle.

He double checks everything is locked--doors, garage door, garage, windows--and he sets his alarm system before heading to his room. Being conscious is too much right now, so he’s gonna lay down again. After stripping down to his boxers, Dan plugs in his phone and puts it on the nightstand. He grabs his ratty, old, blue puppy dog from the foot of the bed and he buries his nose in it before crawling between the sheets.

It’s probably stupid, but having the little stuffed toy in his arms makes him feel less lonely, which is a feat in such a big, empty bed. Thankfully, the stress of the day comes crashing down, and Dan falls asleep quickly as the tenseness leaks from his muscles.


	2. Chapter 2

_Dream I_

The room he’s in is as familiar as his own hand--it’s his parent’s living room, but not as he knows it now. It looks like it did when he was a little, little kid. In fact, he can see himself sitting in the corner of the living room in a nice patch of sunshine, coloring in his dinosaur coloring book that Avi got him last week. He notes that he has an angry, red scab on his brow, which means he’s three.

Dan can hear his parents talking distantly in the kitchen, but he’s drawn to his younger self, who has every blue and green crayon in the bin in front of him. He couldn’t color for shit, but he felt like a little Da Vinci at the time. Even now, Danny is singing to himself. He’s mumbling the words, and they get pretty mangled by his lisp, but he can carry the tune well enough that he can recognize what it is he’s singing.

“It was a heat of a momen’,” his younger self sings, “tellin’ me what a harmeant...”

Dan knew he’d been singing since before he could properly talk, but hearing it like this makes it more real. Music is in his blood, and that’s why the way he’s feeling lately sucks so much. It’s surprising that he could always carry a tune, too. He figured his mom was just telling him that to make him feel better.

In the way that dreams often do, the setting changes on a dime, and Dan finds himself observing his bedtime routine. Avi is telling him a story in Hebrew. He can’t understand the language anymore, but he knows somehow that Avi is telling the story of the rocks and the diamonds to him.

When he finishes, Danny is blinking sleepily up at his father. Avi pets his soft, baby curls back and kisses his forehead before he begins to sing him to sleep. As he usually did, Dan joins in for the first few lines. Even when he’s damn near asleep, he has to sing.

“ _Numi, numi, yaldati. Numi, numi, nim._..” They sing together softly, and by the time they start on the next line, Danny’s eyes have fluttered shut, and he’s already drifting off to sleep. When he’s sure that his son is asleep, Avi stands up and leaves the room. Dan follows him, curious, and he’s led into Dana’s room where his mom is breastfeeding her. Debbie looks absolutely exhausted, and he doesn’t really blame her--having a newborn and a toddler at the same time is never easy.

“When you are done, go to bed,” Avi murmurs, and he kisses Deb’s forehead. “I will put her in the cradle.” Debbie smiles tiredly up at her husband, and she passes the baby to him. Once she’s tucked back into her shirt, she gets out of the rocking chair and she shuffles out into the hallway.

Dana fusses, and Avi bounces her, shushing her cry. He sits down in the rocking chair and he rests Dana on his chest so she can feel the rumble of his voice, too. Again, he begins to sing. “ _Durme, durme, mi alma donzella... Durme, durme, sin ansia y dolor..._ ”

In this moment, Danny feels better than he has in weeks, surrounded by the low timbre of his father’s voice. He feels safe and secure, like nothing can harm him. It feels like childhood, like scraped knees and the smell of sunscreen and the sound of the sprinkler and the feel of sand between your toes.

Danny watches Avi rock Dana to sleep for a few more moments before leaving the room unnoticed. He wanders down the hallway to the closed door that he knows is the laundry room. He has no reason to go inside, but he _wants_ to. He’s startled when he opens the door and he walks into his old classroom in Hebrew school at the local temple.

He’d forgotten that they’d had _sukkahs_ erected in one part of the room, and he drifts through the crowded area towards them. Naturally, he finds his younger self inside the one that’s blue. He no longer has a scab on his eyebrow--it’s been replaced with a clean, shiny line through his brow. He must be somewhere around four, now.

Little Danny looks up and he smiles brightly upon seeing Dan. This is really weird, but Dan smiles back at the little boy, who gestures for him to come sit with him. Dan shrugs and crawls inside the tent, and he sits down on the cushion. Little Danny is playing with dinosaurs.

“Are these your dinosaurs?” Dan asks.

Little Danny nods. “This is my stegosaurus and my triceratops!” He picks up a red, angry looking dinosaur. “And this is my allosaurus!” His **s** sounds are still fucked up, and every **s** comes out as a **th**.

“Are they all friends?”

“No,” Little Danny says solemnly, shaking his head. His hair bounces. “Olly, my allosaurus, doesn’t like Teddy or Cera.”

“How come?”

“Cause they can sing and people like hearin’ them, but Olly can’t sing even though he likes to. People get mad and tell him to be hush.”

Dan frowns. “Well, that’s no good. Olly should sing what he wants when he wants, don’t you think?”

Little Danny nods happily. “I do! My sister Dana can’t sing but she does it lots. It hurts my ears, though.” Dan giggles quietly--he used to go in circles with Dana, trying to teach her to stay on key because her off-key singing would actually make him queasy sometimes. “I don’t tell her to stop though ‘cause she’s having fun.”

Dan ruffles his younger self’s hair. “That’s very nice of you. You wanna know a secret?”

Those are the five words that will get any kid’s attention, and Little Danny looks up at him with big, brown eyes, like he’s just offered him the key to Fort Knox. “What is it?” he asks breathlessly.

“Anyone who tells you that you can’t sing or that you shouldn’t sing is just mad that you’re proud of your voice. Don’t let anybody stop you.”

Little Danny giggles, tongue between his teeth. “Okay. I won’t. I wanna sing when I grow up.” And, much like a small child is prone to doing, he changes the subject to something completely random.

The last thing Dan remembers before waking up to the sunlight filtering through his blinds is him roaring as an allosaurus, chasing the triceratops to get singing tips.

He sits up in his bed, rubbing his eyes. That was a really weird dream, no doubt brought on by all of the stress he’s been dealing with. He generally doesn’t remember much more than a general theme to his dreams, but this one, he can recount scene by scene. Thankfully it was a nice (albeit weird) dream, and not another nightmare.

Dan pushes the dream to the back of his head and he gets out of bed and prepares to start the day.


	3. Chapter 3

When Dan gets to the office, he’s met at the door by Brian, which startles him. “Uh, hello to you to, Bri. Can I get past you there or do I need to slip you a five?”

“No.”

Dan quirks a brow. “No?”

“You’re going back home and relaxing for the day,” Brian commands, and the tone wouldn’t be out of place in a college lecture hall. Here, however, it doesn’t belong.

“I don’t remember asking you,” Dan says coolly, looking down at the older man.

“I also don’t remember agreeing to sit here and watch you destroy yourself,” he counters. “Go home, Dan. Put your work down for the day, stay away from email and social media, and _relax_. Order in some sushi and take a bath or some shit.” Brian sighs. “I’m worried about you, man. We’re all worried about you. Please, take a day off.”

All of the anger he’d had sitting on his chest drains away when Brian finishes speaking. He looks away from his friend and bites his lip in an attempt to keep the encroaching tears at bay. He didn’t know he was affecting his friends with his stupidity.

 _No. Stop that_ , he tells himself, trying to reason with his emotional mind. _You’re not stupid._

“Okay,” Dan whispers, nodding. He won’t meet Brian’s eyes, and he keeps his head down as he turns around and heads down the stairs. Brian watches him get into his car, and even from this distance he can see Dan’s fluffy curls spill forward as he rests his forehead against the steering wheel.

He takes a step forward, but a heavy hand on his shoulder stops him. “Don’t.”

It’s Arin.

“Arin,” Brian begins, and Arin’s fingers tighten on his shoulder.

“You and I both know that it’ll make it worse. I want to go fix it, too.” Arin takes Brian’s hand and tugs him back inside. “He let me know this morning that he made a therapy appointment, so he’s aware that he has a problem.” Brian’s sigh of relief is cut off when Arin tells him it won’t be until next week.

“Fuck. Well, we’ll all just keep an eye on him, okay? Make sure he knows we’re here.” Arin nods, and he squeezes Brian’s hand before letting go.

Out in the parking lot, Dan still hasn’t moved, except to grab the pocket pack of tissues from his jacket pocket. He can’t drive while he’s crying, so he has to wait. He hates that Brian is right--he shouldn’t be at work right now. He’ll do nothing but bring everyone else down and get mad because he can’t fucking do his job right.

When his forehead starts to throb from being pressed against the steering wheel, he finally sits up and rubs the dent that’s formed there. He's sure he has a big red spot now but he can't find it in himself to give a shit. He wipes his eyes with the heels of his hands and then blows his nose. His eyes are puffy and irritated now, but he can see. Once his seatbelt is buckled, Dan starts the car. When his radio kicks on to _Hair Nation_ , he hits the seek button, and classical piano begins to trickle out from the speakers. He turns the volume down a little bit and then he reverses out of his parking space.

Danny doesn’t go home immediately--he drives around for a while in one of the rich neighborhoods, since there’s essentially no traffic for him to fight with. Right now he really misses Jersey--he could drive up into the nearby mountains and just forget that everyone else existed for a little bit. Here, where he’s surrounded on all sides by the city, it’s stifling feeling like he can’t get outside of the concrete desert full of cacti made of glass and metal.

The only thing that propels Dan towards home is his growing need to pee, and two hours after leaving the office he finally shuffles into his kitchen. He puts his backpack on the table and puts his phone on top of it before he goes to take a piss. When he’s done, he strips off his clothes and pulls on a well-loved threadbare pair of pajama pants. They’re covered in dinosaurs.

Dan’s stomach gurgles, cutting through the quiet of his empty house, and he looks down at it with disdain. He’s really not hungry, but he should eat, and by the time he finally finds something he can stand to eat, twenty more minutes have passed. He sits down with a bowl of blueberry oatmeal, and he manages to eat half of it before he can’t do any more. His stomach is thankful for the food even though he feels like he’s going to hurl.

He cleans up his small mess and heads to his room, where he puts his sleep headphones on. They’re in a little headband so he can actually lie on his side and be comfortable. He plugs them into his phone and starts his ASMR playlist. Anything else would be too much--the thought of listening to music right now makes his teeth hurt, but the silence is too stifling.

Thankfully, it does the trick, and he relaxes enough to fall asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor child abuse/traumatization/bullying of a child by an adult.

This is a room he never thought he’d be in again. It’s an odd sensation--he’s observing through the eyes of his younger self, but he’s got the awareness of his current self. He’s reminded distantly of sleep paralysis, but that thought floats out the window when an older man sits down on the bench next to him, causing the wood to creak in protest. Thankfully it’s cushioned, otherwise Dan’s butt would already hurt.

He’s with Mr. Wolfe, his old piano teacher that he had when he was six. He’d made it to his first recital before begging his mother to quit. He’d pushed this experience with music down into a box in his head, and he’s honestly not very happy to relive it.

“Begin your scales,” Mr. Wolfe says, and his voice reminds Danny of a handful of gravel bouncing around inside a blender. Danny nods, and he begins his scales, going from one key to the next and then back. The arpeggios are completed without incident, and he’s instructed to move onto practicing the piece he’s been assigned. He likes the song--it’s fun and bouncy.

The sheet music--which Dan most certainly cannot fucking read--says that it’s Bach’s Minuet in G Major. He sits idly by, unable to offer any help to his younger self as he tries to read the notes and remember what key corresponds to it. He can’t tell you what the names of them are, but he remembers where a lot of the keys sit.

Danny does pretty well for the first several notes, but he soon misses a note, as many beginners do, and there’s a sharp cracking sound and stinging pain blossoms across his knuckles. He whimpers, which earns him a very dirty look from Mr. Wolfe.

The first time this happened, Mr. Wolfe screamed at him when he started crying, telling him to suck it up and that boys don’t cry. Danny wanted to quit right then, but even at such a young age, he knows that piano lessons aren’t cheap, and he needs to stick it out for as long as he can.

It goes on for the better part of an hour--Danny playing his song and Mr. Wolfe hitting him with a ruler every time he misses a note. Dan had really, really tried to block this out of his brain--it was the first instance he’d ever had of an adult flat-out bullying him, and it was the first time he’d ever been struck by an adult. He’d been pushed down on the playground before and hit once or twice by mean kids on the playground, but this is different.

Adults are supposed to help and make you feel safe, not hurt you and make you cry. Danny’s knuckles are bright red and angry by the time the lesson is over, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets so his mom doesn’t see.

He wanted to play piano so bad--pianos are beautiful and watching someone play is like watching magic happen, but now every time he even thinks about playing one, he expects someone to smack him if he messes up.

Dan hates that he had to learn at the young age of six that music isn’t the cure-all-magic he’d thought it was.

The first time he’d sat down at Brian’s piano just to fiddle around a little and see if he remembered anything, the moment the older man sat down next to him, he’d flinched. It was a surprise to realize that his crummy piano teacher had affected him that much, but he’s proud of himself for not letting it taint the beauty of the instrument.

The dream morphs, and for several moments, Dan loses track of where he is and what’s happening--it’s all a blur of people and places, and when everything begins to make sense again, he’s sitting in his chair in choir class, watching all of the other students file out of the room. His choir teacher, an angry man with angry red hair to match, has told him to stay back. Danny had asked if he could do the solo part for one of their songs instead of having a little group do it, and apparently that rubbed Mr. Lajescki’s nose the wrong way.

The words float around him, hanging in the air like clouds as they come out of the teacher’s mouth. _You’ll never amount to anything. You can’t sing. No one will want to listen to your music. No talent. Give up._

It feels like the floor is falling from under his feet--his choir teacher, someone whom he assumes knows things about music and singing because of course he does!--is telling him his dreams are pointless. That there’s no point in continuing in his passion for music because he has nothing to show for it.

Now he’s able to identify this feeling, as he’s experienced it more than enough times in his life--disappointment in himself for not being good enough at what he’s supposed to be good at, anger at himself for not being better, and sadness because music is his heartbeat.

At 3:34 AM, Danny wakes up with damp cheeks. He sits up and rests his head in his hands, threading his fingers into his hair. He’s not fond of this new wave of dreams. Sleep had been the only place he could get away from feeling like a failure, and now his brain is picking up that slack, too. It’s bullshit.

He lays back against the satin sheets with a whuff of air, and he stares at the canopy of his bed. It had been heartbreaking to have his teacher tell him he was talentless, and it had led to him eventually dropping out of choir because he couldn’t take the constant criticism.

That summer, however, he’d discovered Rush, and his passion had been reignited tenfold. Dan smiles softly at the memory, and he holds onto the warm little spark that it gives him in his chest. It’s enough for right now.


	5. Chapter 5

Arin can’t help but notice that Dan is distracted as all hell today. He can’t sit still when generally it’s Arin that’s the fidgety-ass motherfucker. Dan has been parked on his couch, working on lyrics again, but he gets up every ten minutes or so to wander aimlessly before sitting back down and repeating the process. It’s honestly starting to make Arin dizzy to watch him.

The eighth time Dan gets up to meander over to one of the shelves and gently touch some action figures, because he needs to (which is never a good sign for his mental state), Arin intercepts him by taking his hand and leading him wordlessly to his office. Dan stammers and protests, but he doesn’t put much effort into it, and he allows himself to be led into Arin’s room.

Dan sits down heavily on Arin’s couch, sprawling out on his back with a sigh. He won’t meet Arin’s eyes, keeping them trained on the ceiling instead. “I know,” he says softly. He knows that he’s being weird and neurotic, but he can’t make himself stop.

“What’s goin’ on with you, man?” Arin asks, and his tone betrays just how worried he is about his best friend. It’s what makes Dan finally look at him, but when he does, he has to close his eyes because he can’t bare to see the concern on Arin’s face.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dan says quietly.

“Bullshit.”

Dan looks at Arin again, startled. “Arin--”

“Pretending that nothing is wrong or that whatever is going on with you doesn’t matter is bullshit, Danny, and you know that. I know you know that, and I know that it’s not the easiest thing to realize you have a problem or to accept it even if you do realize it, but there’s very obviously something wrong and I’m not going to sit here and watch you sink into your own despair.” Arin looks away when he’s done speaking, and he runs his fingers through his hair nervously. When he looks back at Dan, the older man can see the shine of unshed tears in Arin’s eyes.

A leaden pit of shame settles in Dan’s belly, and he sits up and scoots back against the arm of the sofa so he can curl in on himself protectively. He looks down at his knees where they poke out of the ripped fabric of his jeans. They’re knobbly as fuck, and his right one is crooked. He runs his finger over the thin scar on the left from when he crashed his bike at age thirteen.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything was fine. I was creative and writing awesome shit and getting stuff done and I was happy, and then it just... stopped.”

Because he’s looking down, he doesn’t realize Arin has come over to sit next to him until the couch dips next to him. He hesitates for a few seconds before he looks up at Arin.

“I have a very serious question for you, Dan, and I want you to answer truthfully, okay?” Dan furrows his brow in concern, but he nods. “Are you at any risk for hurting yourself?”

“Wha--no! No, no, it’s not like that,” he assures Arin, and the shame in his belly gains the density of a dying star when he sees Arin visibly untense. “I’m just so fucking frustrated that I could scream. I’m thirty seven and I’m stagnating. I can’t even finish a fucking stanza for a song anymore.

“It’s like I keep lying to myself, saying that I’m successful and that I’ve done enough when I haven’t. I’m almost forty and I have nothing to show for it. Nothing. I can’t write and I can’t read music and I have more shitty music under my belt than I have good stuff. I can’t even keep a fucking relationship for longer than a year.”

He hasn’t even realized that he’s been digging his blunt nails into his exposed knees until Arin pulls his hands away, cocooning them safely in his own. They’re clammy, but it’s kind of comforting since it’s the way Arin’s hands usually are.

“Danny,” Arin says softly. “Danny, look at me.”

Dan won’t do it, and he’s surprised when he feels Arin’s fingers under his chin. He allows the younger man to tilt his head up, and he finally meets Arin’s soft brown eyes with his own. “What?” he whispers.

“You aren’t a failure. You’re incredible, Dan. You’re the most talented person I’ve ever met.” Dan opens his mouth to protest, but Arin keeps talking. “You’re stressed out, and that’s okay. Creativity often sinks into a rut when someone is stressed, and you have every right to be stressed out. You guys are getting ready to release an album, and it’s something you’ve never done before. It’s understandable that you’re worried, man.”

Danny can feel the telltale sign he’s going to cry--his nose begins to tingle.

“Who gives a shit if you can’t read music? It’s never stopped you from writing kickass fucking music before. Not once. You’ve got what, five albums under your belt and you’re about to release a sixth. That’s more than like, ninety percent of people on the damn planet can say.” Dan opens his mouth again, but Arin barrels on. “And before you say ‘well, at least two of those were bullshit flops’, the truth is that the world just wasn’t ready for you yet.”

His bottom lip trembles, and before Arin can prepare himself, Dan is in his arms, face pressed into his shoulder. Arin wraps his arms tightly around Dan, and he rubs his back soothingly.

“You’re an incredible lyricist, Dan,” Arin murmurs. “You have a beautiful, beautiful voice and you’re one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. You’re a powerhouse. It’s just that right now, the light bill didn’t get paid and you’ve gotta get the electricity turned back on.”

Dan lets out a bark of laughter, followed by a sniffle. “I love you,” he mumbles into Arin’s shoulder.

“I love you too, man. We’re gonna get this figured out, okay?”

And at that moment, he one hundred percent believes Arin, and right now, that’s all he really needs.


End file.
